


Semper Fidelis

by Jéssica da Maia (spaceparanoids)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Real World, Alternate Universe - War, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Comrades, Comrades in Arms, Current Events, Deathfic, F/M, Feels, Gen, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Marine Corps, Memorial Day, Middle East, Military, Military Background, Military Backstory, Military Families, Military Jargon, Military Training, Military Uniforms, Modern Era, Other, Romance, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Veterans Day, War, War Crimes, War Era, Women in the Military
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceparanoids/pseuds/J%C3%A9ssica%20da%20Maia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Military AU one-shot</i>: a band of brothers have been deployed to handle the ongoing conflict in Syria and help end the regime of Bashar al-Assad. Amongst them are Altaïr, Malik, Ezio, Yusuf and several others. Many of these servicemen will undergo the hardships that one face in defending the freedoms of a nation ruined by civil war, from countless months of no contact from loved ones to the witnessing of innocents being slaughtered by enemies. In the midst of providing aid to the rebels in Damascus, a certain Captain Kenway reflects upon his desire to be home with you and hopes to the high heavens that he makes it out alive. Tension is high and so is traumatic stress—all to the point where some have even begun to question what they are truly fighting for. Yet one must always stay faithful as a Marine…welcome to modern-day Masyaf, brothers. Semper Fi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Semper Fidelis

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of the [short story](http://haytham-senpai.tumblr.com/post/54653451481/independence-day-au-drabble-connor-reader) I made for American Independence Day. Several requested to see the plot go on as I know you girls (and guys who swing that way) just really want to see Connor propose to you after he gets back from his deployment lol, so yeah. I made this sequel for it. It turned out longer than I originally thought because I added so many reflections by Altaïr and Malik and how they feel about the [current conflict](http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20130517141944AAEPGCC) in Syria. So I ended up throwing in some Altaïr/Maria in the process. Eventually, this fan fic came to be what the entire Assassin’s Creed games have been about, but just put into a modern-day situation.
> 
> Also, I’ve got nothing but mad respect to the men and women who serve in the armed forces, so this fic is dedicated to them.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Even though I’m a Navy brat, I do not know everything about the military, so please don’t hesitate to correct me if I make any mistakes. Some events mentioned in this fan fiction are purely fictional and do not represent what is happening right now in Syria. Nonetheless, this fan fiction may hit close to home for those who have a significant other or family members in the military. Not for the faint of heart so expect some tears of sadness and joy. Also, the views expressed by the characters in this fan fiction about the Middle East do not reflect my own personal views.
> 
> For your listening pleasure, I have provided you this unreleased track on repeat from The Tyranny of King Washington: [[Fallen Warriors](http://www.listenonrepeat.com/watch/?v=4bs2epxOgY8)]. I thought it was quite fitting for the theme of this fic. Be warned though that you’ll be getting be getting a lot of sad feels from listening to it.

05 JUL 13, 1030: New York, New York

Last night’s events are starting to get to you as you wake up from your slumber. This really hasn’t been the best Fourth of July party you ever had, as you had to spend it without your dear Captain. What is worse is that yesterday was your fifth-year anniversary as well, and you are still heart-broken that Connor wasn’t there to celebrate it.

Exhaling a weary breath, you pick up the portrait of you and your boyfriend off your nightstand. You stare at it as you reminiscence about the day you two first met: you remember running into him at the infamous _Bad Weather_ nightclub in Brooklyn and hitting it off with a bang from there. You smile, recalling how he told you that he was on shore leave with his boys for the Independence Day weekend and that he usually wasn’t the type to go clubbing. Apparently, they decided to hook the two of you up together, and you thank them with all your heart that they made that decision. You can’t imagine a life without Connor, seeing how he has become the other half to your soul that you were looking for.

Your hand brushes the smooth, glassy surface of the picture frame, dainty fingers tracing the outline of the Marine in the frame.

Dating someone in the military isn’t easy, what with the constant deployments and being stationed far away from where you live. Only a few men and women are brave enough to endure such long-distance relationships—you knew the risks you were taking when you agreed to go out with the Mohawk warrior. Not only do you have to deal with seeing him only a few times a year, but you also have to deal with the possibility of him being missing or killed in action. Every month that you don’t see him makes you feel as though you are risking your heart to be broken—yet every day, you remind yourself thathe is putting his life on the line to protect the ones he loves, and that includes you.

You can’t even imagine how the dependent wives must feel about this and how they have to deal with it. Just last night, you received a phone call full of sobs from Maria Ibn-La’Ahad as she couldn’t bear to be without her husband. The stress of being a pregnant woman was getting to her, and you attempted to comfort her by cooing, “Deployments suck for everyone, Maria. You have to remember that.”

She continued to sob, saying in between, “I know, I know…it’s just…”

“…You wish he was there to see you give birth to your firstborn son, I know,” you finished for her, pity tainting your voice.

That didn’t stop Maria from crying, although you stayed up with her all night to help her as best as you could.

Now, you are weary and aren’t in the mood to do much else as you plop back into bed—you just had so much to deal with in one night.

Without warning, the mobile phone you left on your nightstand rings, making you grumble as you don’t feel like answering. It rings several more times and you get annoyed until you finally pick it up and see that the call is from Maria. You activate it and articulate, “Yes?”

“Help—I need help—I’m having my baby!” the woman screams.

Your jaw drops as you unconsciously drop your phone. _Oh my goodness!_ You exclaim in your thoughts as you scramble to pick up your phone and dial the emergency number.

05 JUL 13, 1100: 1,200 nautical miles off the coast of Syria aboard the USS Bataan (LHD-5)

“Aaaaannnd _this_ is why I signed up for a non-combatant role!” Shaun Hastings complains as he walks out of the briefing room with his compeers. “By God, the things our higher-ups want us to do over there in Damascus…”

Rebecca shakes her head; she doesn’t like how cowardice her mate is acting. “While I am Navy, I know that you guys have the Rifleman’s Creed—every Marine is a rifleman first before their MOS **[1]**.”

“Relax, Captain. We’ll do the dirty work and risk our lives for ya,” Desmond says jokingly as he claps a hand on Shaun’s shoulder.

“Oh— _tch_ , don’t you tell me to relax! You’re nothing but a butter bar **[2]** fresh out of the Academy!” Shaun spits; he brushes Desmond’s palm off his shoulder and mutters, “Who are you to say that my work isn’t helpful? _Pah_! If I had the chance, I would’ve commissioned with the Royal Marines instead—or Air Force, perhaps—less grunt, more intel.”

“Ah, you mean the Royal _Chair_ Force,” Desmond remarks, snickering. “I mean, all those guys do are sit behind office desks like the fat officers they are—doing the ‘hard work’ from the sidelines by pushing papers.”

“Hey, hey, hey—don’t you _dare_ say anything about—”

“Enough, Shaun—Desmond,” Ezio intercepts; next, he warns Desmond, “As much as I like your ‘chair force’ jokes, you do not kid about risking our lives for nothing.”

“Sorry about that,” Desmond apologizes, scratching the back of his neck.

Strolling next to them is Yusuf, who ignores their quarreling and shakes his head. “I’m still not satisfied with the decision that our commander-in-chief made to pull out the USS Eisenhower and USS Iwo Jima from the gulf when Turkey needed it the most!” he exclaims. He rubs his forehead and says, “Jeez, this whole operation is a mess.”

“Well, I guess that’s what we’re here for, right?” Rebecca remarks, smiling wryly.

They continue to quibble until they have their way to the wardroom. Here, the rest of the officers have gathered for their lunch break. The place is louder than usual—scuttlebutt about the recent mission briefing filled the air, and there is some unrest on the officers’ faces as they chatter about their upcoming objective. Ignoring the gossip, Shaun and company notice some familiar faces all huddled at two large dining tables in the far side of the room—one half full with men and the other filled with only two women.

“Hey, I’ll be sitting over there with Major Grandpré and Major Carter. I don’t want my home girls to be all by their lonesome, so you boys have fun, alright?” Rebecca announces.

The men all bid her farewell as she informally salutes them and makes her way towards the women’s table. Afterwards, the chaps line up to get their lunch, each walking off with plate in hand as they make their way towards the table that is occupied by none other than Altaïr, Malik, Connor, and Kanen.

“Hey, look who’s here to join us,” Malik points out.

“Now the railroad tracks2 gang can be complete,” Yusuf mentions, chuckling and nudging Shaun in the ribs.

The historian merely rolls his eyes and instead shifts his attention to Altaïr. “So, Syria as our next mission, huh? That must be tough.”

“I really don’t know what to make of it…” Malik mumbles as he plays with his food.

“Yeah, I cannot even imagine,” Connor remarks. He sweeps his hand over his smooth Mohawk haircut, his face contorting to concern.

Altaïr furrows his brows as he contemplates upon the ongoing conflict in his home country. He remembers the ‘Arab Spring’ as if it had just begun yesterday—it is the nickname given to the civil unrest that commenced in the Middle East as the people rose against the tyranny of their oppressors. Everywhere in the Arab world, citizens are protesting in the name of freedom. It is a revolution that is sweeping the countries of Egypt, Libya, Yemen…so many others, and now…Syria. However, Altaïr isn’t sure how the outcome of the revolution will be for his homeland. Sighing, he states, “I am not sure myself…I am all for freedom and democracy like everyone else, but the way that the rebels and its allies are going about this is wrong. Do you think it’s even right for us to supply them with arms?”

“I don’t think we’re even fighting in the name of freedom anymore,” Malik interjects. He stops playing with his food, instead sliding his hands down his face in stress and saying, “The idea is noble, but the people who are supporting the cause are not the right players. Our troops are being used to the max! I know that when I joined the Marines, I took an oath to defend America—like—you know, if an enemy country attacked the US, we would defend it to no end. But my God…after what we just went over in the briefing room...this is all wrong—all this for the Zionist state of Israel!”

Grumbling, Altaïr turns to his Mohawk comrade and prompts, “Well, what about you, Captain Kenway? What do you think? Do you question what we are fighting for?”

Connor presses his lips together; more idealistic than most, he would like to believe that what he is doing is all in the name of freedom. However, the more that his Arab brethren uncover the truths about Syria through unbiased channels, the more that he becomes unsure himself about what to believe in. “I, well…” he sighs, unsure of what to say. “Semper fi is our motto, right? You know its meaning—‘always faithful’—I think that is what we should stick to.”

Unsatisfied with Connor’s answer, the only thing that the Arab can do is put on a wry smile. “Perhaps, Captain, perhaps…”

05 JUL 13, 1900: two hours before ‘lights out’ aboard the USS Bataan (LHD-5)

There is some substantial downtime before bed aboard the amphibious assault ship. Yet after the tense atmosphere that plagued the briefing room and wardroom earlier in the day, most opt to spend their time inside their staterooms. The decks of the ship are quieter than usual, and only a few are present in the fitness center. Among them are two Mohawks—Kanen and Connor.

“Hey, you know that question Lieutenant La’Ahad asked you earlier?” Kanen prompts while he bench presses. “I have—just—been wondering—” his speech becomes broken as he lifts the weights—“Did you—join the Marines—to get out of rez life?”

“Rez life?” Connor questions; he is on the floor, doing crunches next to his best friend.

“Yeah—why, did you not—live on the rez?”

“I have never lived on the reservation before, but my mother has. She got out of it when she met my father, though.”

Kanen stops lifting weights as he takes this time to wipe the sweat off his temples. “Ah, I see. You are very lucky then, my friend.” He pulls himself up into a sitting position on the bench now, spent from his work-out. There is a sad smile on his face as he mentions, “As you know, life on the rez is not so easy. My father…he was an alcoholic, and my mother suffered from it.” Shaking his head, he continues, “I have seen some unpleasant things that my father committed against her. I almost joined a gang because of it—I felt like there was no other life for me but the streets. Then high school happened—I signed up for the local JROTC **[3]** program where I learned to become disciplined and hold better standards for myself…” the sadness on his face disappears as he proclaimed, “That is where I met you.”

Connor is just half way through finishing another crunch until he hears what Kanen says. His back collapses onto the fitness mat, completely halting all activity. “Yeah, I remember,” he responds, stretching like a cat so as to get rid of the muscle soreness. “Good thing you did not become a drop-out.”

“If it were not for you and the rest of my brethren, I would have.”

“So I am assuming that this is what inspired you to leave the rez and join the Marines?”

“Indeed. Ever since I won all these scholarships and received an acceptance letter to attend the USNA **[4]**, my life has turned around completely.” Sighing, Kanen declares, “I would like to use the money I make as a First Lieutenant to help out my family. I am trying to get my father to go see a counselor, but he is stubborn—he does not trust the many of the doctors that work for the IHS **[5]** unless they are Native like we are.”

Connor frowns. “The USPHS’ **[6]** medical officers have been serving our community well, and I have seen it first-hand whenever my mother visits the IHS for check-ups.” His visage twists to a smirk as he states, “Granted, my mother was stubborn as well—only trusting medicine men despite these officers being more educated than them. Of course, that all changed when I became an officer myself.”

“Oh she must be very proud to know that her only son is now a Captain in the USMC,” Kanen comments, beaming. “So tell me—why did you commission in the Marines?”

“Well, my family was already better off thanks to my father. But I wanted to help improve life on the reservation by using what I make as a Captain as a donation to Native charities. I also wanted to show my friends that there is more to life than gangs. They are all better off serving in the armed forces than wasting their lives away with these criminal activities…serving your country is way more honorable than this.” Connor sits up now and gazes at Kanen; it is still strange to see his best friend shave his head into a scalplock. Granted, there were times where Kanen would grow his hair long, usually when school was not in session. He would usually get upset whenever he had to cut it in order to comply with military regulations, but this time, the USMC let him keep his hair into a scalplock cut due to tribal reasons. To Connor, though, the significance of his dear friend getting a scalplock means more than just keeping to the regs. Smiling, he notes, “And you are one of them. I could not be any happier to see how well it has worked out for you.”

A warm feeling spread out from the pit of Kanen’s stomach as he realizes that Connor has been nothing but an inspiration to him. He can’t help but return his best friend’s smile and utter, “Niá:wen, my friend—I am very grateful to be serving with you.”

05 JUL 13, 1915: media center, USS Bataan (LHD-5)

“Come on,” Altaïr complains as he tries to reconnect with his spouse through Skype.

The Internet connection aboard the assault ship isn’t the best, especially when several personnel are logged on at once. This just makes the Arab more irritable, as he is limited to only thirty minutes of Internet use.

“This connection is shit,” Malik mutters; he is sitting next to Altaïr where he is attempting to access his ship e-mail account through his laptop station. “How the hell am I going to get updates on my relatives in Masyaf if I can’t even check my mail…?”

Altaïr merely ignores him as his own connection finally comes back online. He exhales a breath of relief upon seeing you on the screen.

“Hey Alty, I see you’re back online—well, I and the rest of the gang here have been in the hospital for hours now. Maria is still in labor although it looks like it will end soon,” you mention as you broadcast yourself over your iPad. “I’m just outside the delivery room—I don’t think I can film the actual birthing process…uhm, but I’ll go back inside soon with Claudia.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” the Lieutenant breathes; he sweeps a palm over his crown then says, “I want to see my wife and newborn child. Hopefully my Internet doesn’t die out on me when you start recording it.”

“Yeah—” just when you are about to respond, a nurse walks out from the delivery room and announces, “It’s time—you can go back in now and start filming.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” you say to her.

The nurse simply nodded and went back inside.

“Okay, well it looks like I can go back in now. Uhm, hold on—” the footage on your webcam becomes disoriented as you move your iPad around. You stroll into the delivery room and see that the medical staff is about to snip the baby’s umbilical cord, and you immediately hold up your iPad for Altaïr to view.

“Wha—what’s going on!?” Altaïr blurts, frantic to see what is happening as his connection becomes spotty again.

“Can you see it well? The doctors and nurses just snipped your baby’s umbilical cord. Now it looks like they’re cleaning him up and wrapping him in a blanket,” you report as you continue to record the entire process. You step closer to Maria now as the medical professionals hand the infant over to her.

“Damn it, I can’t even see clearly,” Altaïr growls, slamming his fist on the desk. He grumbles as the video quality on his laptop significantly goes down, crossing his arms until the streaming is at a decent level once again. He jumps in his chair the minute he sees his spouse and newborn on the feed, leaning forward and observing attentively.

“Hey babe, it’s been a long road but I finally made it,” Maria murmurs; there is a tired expression on her face as she rubs her eyes with one hand. Then, she grins as she holds up her child to your camera. “Here he is—all mighty and proud just like you.”

Altaïr jaw drops as you move you iPad closer to the boy. He is silent for several seconds as he solely sits there and gawks, too stunned for words. Subconsciously, he raises a hand and caresses the screen, as if he is there right now in the delivery room with his wife and newborn son. Then, for the first time in a very long time, tears begin to form at the corner of his eyes. He cradles his forehead onto his palm, sliding it upwards so that he can shield his watery eyes.

Next to him, Malik stops checking his mail as he notices that there is something off about what’s going on. “A-Altaïr—are—are you _crying_?” he blurts, mouth agape; this is the first time ever that he is seeing his friend break down like this.

It takes the newly minted father all his might to look at Malik. “That’s my son, Malik…that’s my _son_ ,” he stresses, returning his attention to the video feed.

Malik simply rubs his neck, unsure of how to comfort a chap in the midst of an emotional event. He feels awkward seeing Altaïr act like this in a public area, and already he can see the sailor next to him gawping at them. Shaking his head, Malik figures that he might as well watch alongside Altaïr so that the atmosphere is less tense.

Contrary to the Altaïr, the tears on Maria’s face flow freely as she witnesses him sobbing for the first time in her life. “He looks just like you,” she susurrates, voice cracking under her overwhelming joyful state. “What should we name him?”

The Lieutenant places a hand over his mouth and lets his tears pool onto it; he decided on a name long ago and knows just what to call him. Taking his hand away, he mumbles, “…Darim…his—his name will be Darim.”

“Man, Altaïr, just…man…—” Malik claps a hand onto the new father’s shoulder and announces, “Congrats on being a new dad.”

The sailor next to Altaïr, whom has also been paying attention to the entire event, expresses, “Congratulations, sir.”

“Thank you…” the Lieutenant mumbles to both of his compeers.

You can’t help but shed some tears as well at this joyful occasion, and you see that even Claudia can’t hold back the waterworks.

Just then, a loud round of applause can be heard from your video feed, and you glance back at your iPad to see what’s going on at the other side.

“Now what is this I hear about Lieutenant La’Ahad becoming a father?” Shaun Hastings butted in as he enters the threshold. He just came back from the fitness center along with Ezio, Connor and Kanen. The quartet slightly stands out from the rest of the personnel in the room, as they are all decked out in their physical training uniforms.

“Hah, back from the gym I see,” Malik states, smirking. “Been trying to keep up with PFT scores now?”

“Oh, well I’ve never felt any better just running _three miles_ on the treadmill!” Shaun spits sarcastically; being more brains than brawn, he hated having to maintain his physical fitness test scores the most. He really regrets commissioning for the Marines, still cursing himself to this day for not going Air Force. “Do you know just how much that is in kilometres? Do you know!? That’s five!”

Ezio chuckles then queries, “Are you sure you ran five-K, Fratello? You seemed to have taken pretty long just to do so.”

Rolling his eyes and huffing, Shaun responds, “Twenty-eight minutes is my time—just barely above the passing score! I hate running—hated it ever since I was little.”

Ignoring their bickering, Kanen saunters over to where the two Syrians are at. Upon peering at the screen, he mentions, “Ah, so it is true that you are a father now—congratulations!”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Martin **[7]**” Altaïr murmurs, smiling a little.

“Wait, is that Kanen I just heard, and Shaun and Ezio, too?” you question as you try to make out just who are the people standing behind the Syrian. Your stream is faltering as the connection aboard their ship becomes weak again. “Who else is with you?”

“Wait—did you just say ‘Ezio’?” Claudia asks; she leans closer to your iPad to see if her brother is on the video feed. “Fratello! Are you there!? It’s me, your sister!”

“Claudia?” Ezio utters; he scurries over to Altaïr’s computer station and mumbles, “Claudia! Can you see me?”

“Oh for crying out loud, I was having a nice moment before the rest of you misfits intruded,” Altaïr grumbles as he palms his forehead.

The remaining trio strolls over to their friends’ location, with Connor taking a seat next to Altaïr once the sailor that occupied that chair left. Kanen takes a seat next to him while Shaun chooses to just stand there as he had a better view of what is going on from his spot.

“LT, how long have you been here? Isn’t past thirty minutes for you already?” Ezio asks, crossing his shoulders and tapping his feet.

As if on cue, the laptop Altaïr is using immediately logs him out with a pop-up notification telling him that his time is up.

“Hey—”

“Alright, Lieutenant, time to get out,” Malik mutters while trying to yank the butter bar from his chair. “Sorry for the inconvenience, everyone—” at last, he is able to pull Altaïr out from his chair and drag him towards the exit.

“Hey, let go—”

“LT here is just a little overwhelmed with the baby delivery, but he thanks all of you for your felicitations!” Malik hollers as he pushes his friend out the door.

“No, I—”

“Damn it, Altaïr! You need to calm down. Your time is up and it’s almost lights out anyway. We need to head back to our stateroom,” Malik mutters as he drags the Syrian down the corridor.

Their bickering fades the further they move away from the media center, leaving the rest of their buddies all to themselves. Ezio has already taken up Altaïr’s former chair while Shaun takes up Malik’s.

“I need to see my sister,” the infantry officer says in a hurry as he tries to log in as soon as possible. Checking his watch, he mutters, “We don’t have much time left until lights out.”

“I will see if I can connect to Skype,” Connor mentions while he starts up the video chat on his laptop station. It takes him on a view minutes to restart the stream, yet the quality is back to being dismal.

“Hey, what happened? Where’s Altaïr?” you inquire as your connection comes back up.

Upon hearing your voice, Connor scoots closer to the computer and blurts, “Norónhkhwa **[8]**, is that you!?”

“Co—connor!?” you bellow; your heart races as you become desperate to have connection on the other side pick back up again. You want to see his face so bad since you haven’t seen him in months. However, another voice butts in and asks, “Hey, is Claudia there? I need to speak to her!”

“Claudia? Yes, she is here,” you answer, handing your iPad over to the Italiana. “Hey, your bro wants to talk to you.”

She brings the iPad closer to her face and exclaims, “Ezio, can you hear me?”

Perking up, Ezio responds, “Si! How are you, Claudia? How has mamma and Petruccio been doing?”

“We’ve been doing well,” Claudia replies; smiling, she notes, “They said ‘hi’ by the way.”

Ezio grins. “Tell them I said ‘hi’ as well.”

As the Italian takes up time on the computer, Connor grumbles, annoyed that he can’t speak with you as Ezio has pushed him aside. Instead, he takes up a vacant chair next to his best friend although does not even attempt to connect to Skype on his station as he renders it pointless. The ship’s Internet service is just too spotty to be able to pick up enough bandwidth.

Meanwhile, Shaun and Kanen mind their own business on the Web: what the historian officer is doing doesn’t faze Connor as searching up news articles on Syria seem to be his typical thing, although the window on Kanen’s laptop makes him raise a brow.

“Are you…are you playing ‘Angry Birds’?” the Captain asks, baffled.

Kanen snickers. “I logged into my Google Chrome account and was able to play it from there.”

There is a look of incredulity on Connor’s face as he gawps at the First Lieutenant playing the addicting Flash game.

Grinning, Kanen releases his hold on the mouse and gleefully observes the angry bird collides onto the evil pig’s fortress. He lets out audible chuckle of victory as the bird is able to hit all the obstacles and pigs, gaining him some bonus points for doing so.

Connor shakes his head and sniggers at how easily amused his best friend is with such activities. Sighing, he figures that he might as well keep himself occupied by checking his mail or so. Thus, he logs into his e-mail account but knits his brows when he notices a peculiar letter in his inbox. He clicks it open, scratching his head as he notices that the subject is encrypted in binary. Glancing around, Connor wonders if he can have someone help him decrypt the message so that he can find out where it comes from. _Man, where is Rebecca when you need her?_ He ponders. _This is basically her job on this ship._

Shrugging, he proceeds to read its contents, which display, “WARNING: DO NOT GIVE THE REBELS ARMS. I REPEAT, DO NOT GIVE THE REBELS ARMS. IF YOU TRULY WANT TO HELP THE PEOPLES OF SYRIA, COME AND FIND THIS LOCATION IN MASYAF—”

There are several more binary codes written until the capitalized message, which just annoys Connor furthermore as he can’t read it. Closing his browser window, he simply sits there as he takes time to let the message sink into his mind. He usually doesn’t receive letters like those, and he has to wonder just how an encrypted one is able to pass through military channels. Worry starts to creep into him as he isn’t sure if this is something he should report to his superior or no. Currently, the objective given to them is to initiate supplying arms to the Free Syrian Army and fight alongside them. “Captain Hastings, do you know anything about this?” Connor prompts, tapping the historian officer on the shoulder.

Tearing his eyes away from his screen, Shaun glances at Connor’s adjusting his glasses as he examines the e-mail. “My God! What is this all about?”

“That is what I would like to know. Should I report this? I am not sure about what to do…”

“Let’s have our cryptologic officer analyse it first—it could just be a hoax for all we know.”

“Those were my thoughts earlier, but I do not know where Lieutenant Crane is right now. Although we can have another analyst officer look over it.”

“Alright, I’m done. You can use the video chat now, Captain Kenway,” Ezio announces as he gets out his seat.

“Oh thank goodness,” Connor breathes; he scoots over a seat and prepares to communicate with you, forgetting all of a sudden that he left his browser window open on his computer station.

“Hey! Don’t just leave your place like that! You carelessly left your browser open!” Shaun scolds as he moves over to Connor’s station.

“Sorry about that,” Connor apologizes, scratching his head in embarrassment.

“Whatever. I’m going to forward this to my own e-mail account anyway—I need to see what this madness is all about,” Shaun mutters.

“Hey, what’s going on over there? You guys seem to have a lot of interruptions,” you comment, getting impatient with all the common.

“Norónhkhwa! It is me…” Connor susurrates as he grazes the screen; so badly wishes that he can hold you at this moment.

“Connor!?” you shout, frantic to see your beloved on the video feed. “Connor! My goodness, my baby…I miss you so much…” A lump forms in your throat as you try to fight back the oncoming tears.

The Captain sees your pained expression, and he can’t help but try to comfort you as best as he can within his limits. “Please, do not be sad,” he mumbles, voice nearly a whisper. “When the time comes, I shall meet you across the sea.”

The waterworks are at their full strength now as you weep at his words. You try to be strong for him, mustering the courage to articulate, “You better come back alive—I didn’t wait this long for nothing.”

Connor displays a wry smile; he really can’t guarantee that he can come home in one piece, although he murmurs, “I will do my best, norónhkhwa.”

31 JUL 13, 1739: Damascus, Syria

“Malik, what are you doing!?” Altaïr yells, aggravated at the way his close friend has been acting.

What starts off as a simple off-duty excursion turns into a complicated matter as Malik steps out of the public toilet stall, backpack in hand. His attire of the day is completely different than the usual; stuffing his plain civilian clothes in his backpack, he mutters, “Doing what is right for our homeland, that’s what.”

Altaïr shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders simultaneously in puzzlement. “What’s with the hood? You look like you just stepped out of the Crusades,” he remarks.

Smirking, Malik replies, “Well, you know that e-mail that Lieutenant Crane decrypted?”

“Yes, what about it? Our superiors, let alone the Obama administration, merely dismissed it as fabrication set up by our enemies to lure us into their trap.”

Malik shakes his head and responds, “No, they are wrong. Remember that short assignment we had in Masyaf not too long ago?”

“Yes—why?”

“I did more than just visit my relatives on the small amount of free time I had. Like you, I also received that mysterious e-mail. Yet unlike you, I decided to act upon it once a Brother of mine showed me the light.”

“‘Brother?’”

Malik casts him a serious expression and stresses, “ _Ḥashshāshīns,_ Altaïr.”

Altaïr drops his jaw, shocked at what he’s hearing. “You are an _assassin?_ Have you lost your mind!?”

Seizing his friend’s shoulders, Malik shakes him and irritably declares, “Do you not see what is going on here, Altaïr!? All of this—the rebellion against Bashar al-Assad, the civil war, the interventions by the US and Russia and Iran, the proxy war that this whole situation is turning into—can’t you see!? This is all nothing but a Templar plot conspiracy! They want this to happen!”

“Assassins? Templars? What sorcery is this?” Altaïr interrogates; he is doubtful of everything he is listening to, instead believing that his fellow Syrian has gone crazy.

“Don’t believe me? Fine, figure it out for yourself,” Malik spits, releasing Altaïr’s shoulders. “History is repeating itself and soon we will be entering another Crusade, another World War.” Adjusting his backpack on his shoulders, he pushes Altaïr aside and storms towards the door. He is about to turn the handle until he halts and glances back, “The US military won’t do anything about it and even the Obama administration won’t do anything about it. They too are becoming Templar-influenced, and I will do whatever it takes to diminish that influence.”

“Malik, you cannot be serious—”

“Oh, but I am! So much that should any of our allies search for me, tell them that I went MIA.”

“What!? That’s not going to work! They’ll classify you as AWOL instead!”

Smiling wryly, Malik states, “That can be arranged—I have the entire Assassin Order backing me up. I only hope that someday, you too shall see the light and join me, comrade.” He turns back around and opens the door but is interrupted by Altaïr once more.

“Wait!” he yells, scurrying over to the assassin’s location. He utters, “You really are leaving for good?”

There is a sad expression on Malik’s features as he glances at Altaïr solemnly declares, “I do not care if I eventually get a dishonorable discharge for it. My life in the Marines was about to come to an end one way or another ever since the Arab Spring began. My relatives in Masyaf can take care of me for the time being, and so can the Assassin Brotherhood. Although I do hope that someday—if America really is for freedom—that they see the light and stop this madness.” Shrugging, he mentions, “Who knows? Perhaps I might get reinstated someday because of my work in the shadows and even get some military honors for it.”

“So I see…if that is the case, then…” Altaïr sighs, closing his eyes for a minute. Then, he stands at attention and salutes his higher-ranking peer, “Semper fi, Captain Al-Sayf—once a Marine, always a Marine _._ ”

Malik blinks several times, surprised to witness his compatriot saluting him despite deserting the military. He about-faces Altaïr, bringing his heels properly together and saluting the Lieutenant in return. When he sees Altaïr bring his palm down, he walks closer to him now, expression intense as he rumbles, “I am honored to have been part of the few and the proud. But remember this, my friend—” solemnly, he commences reciting, “Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember that nothing is true.  Where other men are limited by morality or law, remember that everything is permitted.  We Assassins work in the dark to serve the light. For nothing is true, yet everything is permitted.” With that said, he turns on his heel and walks out the door.

Altaïr could have followed him, but the phrase that Malik said to him leaves him too stunned to do anything else. “Nothing is true…everything is permitted,” he echoes, the words dance on the tip of his tongue as if they are a sacred phrase. “Nothing is true…everything is permitted…” he repeats this several times, subconsciously reflecting upon the fact that this is how he has been feeling about the entire Arab Spring and Syrian uprising.

“Perhaps Malik is right…” he murmurs.

Just then, he realizes that he can still catch up to the assassin. Thus, he runs out of the toilet room in haste, frantically searching for him but no luck. Malik is gone for good, making their farewell salutes the last time he’ll ever see of him.

31 SEP 13, 1418: Old Damascus, Syria

The proxy war that has been building up over the past several weeks has turned its full course now, what with casualties flying left and right. Civilians everywhere are panicking as they flee for their lives. Unfortunately, a cluster of them die ~~s~~ from a planted bomb and several become injured.

Altaïr has to halt for a second, shocked to witness this first hand. This isn’t the homecoming he dreamed of, to see his birth nation bleed red and its citizens cannibalize each other for a worthless cause that has been lost in between politics.

“Sir! We’re waiting on you!” His platoon sergeant bellowed.

Altaïr shakes his head in order to get out of his dazed state. Perhaps in another time, he would have enjoyed walking the ancient streets of Old Damascus—perhaps even free-run across the rooftops like he used to when he was a teen. But now is not the time, for this beloved part of the capital is being carelessly destroyed by both the rebels and al-Assad’s forces. He definitely did not want to see such precious pieces of his culture erode and get lost in time. “It’s too late to save these innocents and we can’t let this happen again. We just have to keep going, men, so let’s move out!” he roared, signaling his small platoon of sixteen Marines to advance.

There is no time to mourn for the lost souls of his country, and Altaïr is not sure if he is able to handle any more of this. Although he tries his best to focus on the mission ahead, his nerves are already getting to him. Clutching his rifle, his hands shake in tell-tale anxiety as he storms through the streets of Souk Sarouja. Being the proud Marine that he is, he does his best to hide it, not wanting to let his platoon know that his emotions are daring to break down on him.

31 SEP 13, 1432: Aleppo Countryside, Syria

“ _Kanen'tó:kon!_ ” Connor roars as he runs up to the injured Mohawk warrior. His heart is racing as he sees how badly injured Kanen is. His face is a mess and he is bleeding terribly from the sides. “Kanen'tó:kon! Speak to me!”

Writhing in agony, the only thing that Kanen can do was susurrate incoherent sounds.

Panic taints Connor’s visage as he realizes that his executive officer is failing in vital signs. They are placed in the worst situation right now to call for a combat medic as they are in the middle of open fire. The other junior commissioned and non-commissioned officers that are supposed to help him are faltering in their own platoons, making the entire battlefield look like a chaotic warfare. Enraged to see how morale is low and how he is losing this round, he hauls his fellow warrior’s heavy body over his shoulder until he is unwittingly struck by bullets from behind.

31 SEP 13, 1601: Damascus, Syria

The Turk finds himself caught in the midst of a battle zone adjacent to the US Embassy. The Turk’s eyesight is failing him the second a tear gas has been thrown at his spot. Regardless, he is able to save the hostages and defend himself from oncoming enemies. Yet just as he and his platoon try to escort the victims to a safer place, what no one sees coming is the oncoming attack from just inside…

Without warning, time comes to a standstill as a vast blast of light ignites, initiating a massive explosion at the embassy. Walls implode and debris flies everywhere as the building structure comes crumbling down.

1 OCT 13, 1622: USS Bataan (LHD-5)

Shaun is inside his stateroom, about to type on his laptop a draft of all his research on Syrian current events and Damascus history until he cannot handle anymore. The stress is starting to get to him as well—never in his life does he think that the recent happenings would affect him so greatly. Sighing, he shoves his work aside for a while and pulls a leather journal from his drawer. Flipping to a blank page, he picks up his fancy fountain pain and commences writing:

**[1 Oct 2013 – aboard the LHD-5]**

_I am on a special assignment as a historian officer to research and write official histories of Marine Corps activities here in the Levant. Yet so far with my deployment in Syria, the chronicles I have gathered about the country and its rich history are…saddening, to say. There have been multiple bombardments that have occurred in many world heritage sites over the past several weeks, from many historical Aleppo sites to even having some synagogues and mosques destroyed. It depresses the historian in me to see the wonderful cities of Aleppo and Damascus become so war-torn like this. How am I supposed to write about Marine victories and losses if I can’t even write anything about these cities? So much of what is happening is tied to the culture of these buildings—to have them become lost forever would be detrimental not only to military history, but to world history as well._

_Then there are the causalities that my peers have faced. Usually, I am not one to write sappy journal entries, but…_

_1 st Lt Kanen'tó:kon Martin – heavily injured from an explosion._

_1 st Lt Yusuf Tazim – heavily injured from a bombing attack._

_Capt Malik Al-Sayf – declared MIA._

_Capt Connor Kenway – injured from gunfire._

_I write out these names with a heavy hand and a heavy heart—may their recovery be a speedy one._

_As for Malik—man alive, just what happened to him?? If he became a POW, then God only knows_

The historian immediately closes his journal as he cannot stand to write anymore. He sighs; the recreational centers will certainly be a lot quieter without them now. Wondering if he is allowed to visit them in the sick bay, he leaves his desk and exits the office. He scurries down the corridors as fast as possible, nearly knocking into some sailors as he makes his way towards the med bay.

1 OCT 13, 1703: USS Bataan (LHD-5) wardroom

The table that the boys usually sit at is completely vacant as Altaïr, Ezio and Desmond have moved over to where their trio of female friends sits. They figure that eating dinner with Dobby, Rebecca and Aveline will be a little more comfortable and help ease the weary tension that spread among them since yesterday’s events.

“Good evening, Capitaine Hastings! Care to join us for souper **[9]**?” Aveline asks the minute she saw the historian officer stroll towards their table with dinner tray in hand.

Shrugging, Shaun answers, “Eh, since my table is looking a little empty tonight, I might as well.” He puts his tray down on the surface and sits next to Rebecca.

“So…I heard what happened,” Dobby mentions; she plays with her soup a bit, unsure of how to pry information from Shaun without sounding too rude.

“About what?” Shaun interrogates.

“About what happened to the two First Lieutenants you usually sit with—oh, and Captain Kenway, too.”

“Oh—that—uhm, yes, well…” the historian scratches his head, uncertain of how to answer. “Lieutenant Tazim and Martin seem to be in pretty bad shape. Captain Kenway as well, but his wounds seem to be less severe than the LTs.”

 “Mon Dieu! That doesn’t sound too good,” Aveline remarks; she places a hand over her heart and says, “I hope they get better soon.”

“I do, too,” Rebecca interjects. “Things just wouldn’t be the same without them…”

The atmosphere is getting awkward as they all sit eating their dinner in silence. Unable to stand it any longer, Dobby breaks it by inquiring, “Say, did anyone here receive a strange encrypted e-mail in their inbox?”

Altaïr nearly drops his utensils upon hearing Dobby’s question. “What did it say?” he interrogates.

“Well, it was hard to read since half of it was in binary, but it was saying that if we really wanted to help the Syrian people, then we should go find some location in Masyaf—I couldn’t make out what the location was because that part was cryptic, too.”

“Wait…I got the same letter in my inbox,” Desmond notes. He knits his eyebrows as he finds that there is something suspicious to this.

“Same here, actually,” Ezio remarks, rubbing his chin.

“What the—is this some kind of joke? Because I received the same thing not too long ago,” Aveline mentions.

“No, it’s not a joke,” Altaïr responds. “I received a copy as well…”

“Something fishy is going on here if all of us at this table that got this message,” Shaun comments, raising a brow. Then, he asks Rebecca, “Lieutenant Crane, do you of anyone else that got this e-mail?”

“No, I believe it’ just you, me and the ragtag bunch of misfits here at this table that we usually hang out with,” Rebecca replies, shrugging. “Although I do find it suspicious that it’s only us mutual friends that got this e-mail.”

“Hm, that’s strange. I wonder how such data was able to get through military channels…” Dobby ponders.

“That’s what I’d like to know. I’m still having a hard time trying to figure it out. The only thing I know is that the letter came from some obscure group that calls itself—hold on, let me get a pen and paper from my binder—” Not wanting to be overheard by the sailors and marines in the other tables, Rebecca pulls out her notebook and jots down ‘Erudito Collective’ with her pen.

“Huh, interesting…” Ezio muses as he continues to rub his chin.

“Whoever they are must be some high-class bunch of hackers since they seem to fit in more with what the CIA hunts down. I did try to tell my superior about this, and it was relayed to the Pentagon a few days later. However, they all replied with denial, saying that the message is just a fabrication set up by our enemies to throw us off,” Rebecca explains.

“But if it’s just you, me, and everyone we know here at this table along with our friends who are currently in the sick bay, then it cannot just be a mere coincidence,” Aveline reasons.

“If it’s no coincidence then it’s OPSEC **[10]**,” Desmond points out. “There’s no way some regular person is able to get all our information in this manner. I think some terrorist group is after us, and for what reason we at this table were specifically targeted? I don’t know.”

Not being able to withstand the conversation, Altaïr shakes his head and speaks up, “No—you all have it wrong! I know what this is really about.”

Turning to face him, Shaun blurts, “You do?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Spill it.”

Rubbing his temples, Altaïr explains, “This isn’t OSPEC. Our identities and security aren’t being threatened. I know the real reason why Captain Al-Sayf—” Sighing, he inquires, “You know what, Rebbeca? I’m going to need that notebook of yours to write all of this down. I’ll explain it all from there.”

1 OCT 13, 1624: New York, New York

You flip the channel the minute you see news about bombings in the Levant—you can’t stand to hear anything about the war in Syria anymore as they just make you jittery about your Marine. You sigh, your heart getting heavy; he hasn’t called in weeks. Although he can’t call often, he makes does his best to call you at least once a week. Yet it’s been nearly a month since his last call…

Anxious, you pick up your mobile to check up and see if Maria is feeling the same way as well. Yet the second you start dialing her number, your phone rings. You nearly die from a heart attack as you see Connor’s ID flash on your phone’s screen. With apprehension, you immediately pick up the phone and spit, “Hello!?”

“N—norónhkhwa…is that you?” Connor mumbles, his voice tinny over the phone.

You don’t say anything for a while as the sound of your man’s voice is enough to make you break down into an emotional mess. Anger, sadness, bitterness, aggravation, relief, happiness…you don’t know what to feel; all that you can do is unleash all the emotions that you have been bottling up over the past several weeks.

“Do not cry, norónhkhwa,” Connor susurrates upon hearing you sob. “You have to stay strong for me, remember?”

“I’m trying,” you snuffle, finding it difficult to articulate what you want to say as you try to stop weeping. “I-it’s hard—do you know how h-hard it is to g-go several w-weeks w-without you here, b-by my side, e-embracing me…I…I can’t…”

Although you can’t see it, there is a frown on Connor’s face as he murmurs, “It takes two to get through this deployment. I cannot be strong if you are unable to be. A Marine’s other half must be as brave as they are.”

“I know…” you stress, voice nearly a whisper.

“I will come home from the sea soon, norónhkhwa,” he assures. “But I do not know if I will come home with good news.”

“W-what do you mean?”

“I…” he is unsure if he should tell you that he has been injured and is currently recovering in the sick bay. He doesn’t want you to cry any further despite his injuries not being server enough that the staff allowed him to call you by himself. He also still isn’t sure about the fate of his two brothers-in-arms who are in the sick bay with him. Thus, with a sigh, he responds, “The condition here in Syria has not been all that great lately.”

“I see,” you whisper as you wipe away your tears.

“Rest assured, I am fine. I will see you soon…just hang in there, alright?”

“Okay…I—I will…”

“Konorónhkhwa…remember that.”

With a sniffle, you utter, “I love you, too.”

There is a short pause before Connor states, “I must go now—I do not have the luxury of staying on the phone any longer. But take care, alright?”

“Y-you too….”

“I shall see if I can call you next week. Ó:nen **[11]**”

“I look forward to it—b-bye now…”

He hangs up on you, and you involuntarily huff as the last of your sobs die down. Being stuck in your apartment without any physical contact whatsoever from your loved one has been a miserable experience for you so far. You can hold off not feeling Connor’s gentle touches whenever you two would cuddle, but you can’t stand to go months without making love to him. Yet unlike other spouses, fiancées, boyfriends or girlfriends who cheat on their significant other that’s in the military, you choose to remain faithful to Connor. You manage to get through most dreary days by simply pleasuring yourself should sexual urges arise, or by entertaining yourself through friends, events and hobbies should boredom hit you. Because no matter how tempting it is to easily give up on a military man and go settle for a civilian, you wouldn’t trade Connor for the world. He is your soul mate, the man of your dreams that you have been looking for all these years. So like a true Marine boyfriend or girlfriend, you are one of the few and proud to declare that you are _semper fi_ to your Marine.

With this though in mind, your crestfallen mood lightens to a more optimistic one, a small smile forming on your lips as you anticipate the day he returns home.

8 OCT 13, 1505: JFK International Airport, New York

The tarmac of the airport is lined by several police and Marines as the casket of the fallen warrior is being unloaded from the cargo hold of the plane. The Marines drape the American flag over the casket, honoring the sacrifices that the veteran has made during his short-lived time in the Corps. You—along with your friends, family, the local news and several people from the Mohawk Nation, watch in solemn from the sidelines.

You sob, knowing just whose body is inside that casket and how it has affected not only you, but the entire Kanien'kehá:ka community as well. An anchorwoman comes up to the Mohawk couple that is weeping beside you and prompts, “This must be a very hard time for you. If you can would you kindly tell me more about your son and how you feel this?”

Sniffling, the wife responds, “He was very brave, but gentle and kind as well. He’s done so much for the Kanien'kehá:ka…just…so much in s-so little time…”

“He wanted to show not only our people, but also the whole world how one can turn their life around for the better,” the husband replies. “As you know, life on the reservations isn’t so easy. Kanen…he…he would’ve grown up as a trouble kid had he not found stability in the military. He…he has been very inspirational to our people, showing them how there are always second chances in life—he’s—he’s instilled strength, courage and honor to the children of Kanien'kehá:ka—values that have been long lost to decades of struggle.”

“He did so much for our community and revitalized the fighting spirit that defines our Nation,” the mother adds. Sobbing at full force now, she chokes, “He—he w-will be—v-very m-missed—e-especially w-within o-our f-family…”

The father shakes his head as he comforts his wife by snaking an arm around her and sliding it up and down her side. In his mind, he reflects upon all the things he regrets doing—binge drinking, inflicting physical and emotional pain…in his native tongue, he muses, _I am sorry that I have not been the best father I can be while you were still alive, Kanen…yet you never gave up on me—you always had a positive outlook wherever you went._

“Is there anything else that you would like to say?” the news reporter inquires.

Glancing up with sullen eyes, the father speaks, “I…I am going to use the money that Kanen has been sending to us to better my family. There are some issues that my wife and I still have to resolve, and I would like to honor my son’s hard work by seeking counseling for once—he…he fought for my freedom—h-he fought to free me f-from the mental hell I’ve been living for so many years now…”

You cannot but weep in silence as you idly listen to the story of Kanen’s parents. He’s told you before how life was like for him before he joined the Marines—one filled with alcoholism, domestic violence and the temptation to become part of a gang—how he wanted to use the money he earned in the Marines to help his parents and his community… _It took a son’s death to have a family finally seek change_ , you reflect bleakly _. And now this is the price they have to pay._ Exhaling a stressed breath, you voice, “Kanen really was the brightest—he always carried a warm radiance to him no matter where he was or what people he encountered.”

Surprised at your unprompted thoughts, the reporter turns to you and queries, “Miss, what do you know about this man?”

“He was my boyfriend’s best friend,” you answer as you wipe away your tears. “They’ve known each other since high school, being part of the JROTC team together—they even went to the Naval Academy together and have served in the same unit over there in Syria.”

Nodding her head, the newsperson thanks you for your input then whirls around, moving instead towards an area where some Mohawk military veterans stood to honor their fallen brethren.

“Excuse me sir, if I have this correctly, I see that you were a war chief in the Army…” the reporter drawls; her voice becomes in audible now that she has moved far away from your spot.

You glance back at Kanen’s parents, seeing how much of an emotional mess they are and shake your head. Wanting to comfort them, you pat them on the back and embrace them, taking this time to grieve together. Then, you proceed to stand in silence, allowing the tears to flow down your face as the honor guards carry the casket at a slow but respectable pace towards the hearse. “Ó:nen ki' wáhi **[12]**, Kanen'tó:kon,” you mumble as the guards have reached the funerary vehicle and put the casket inside; they then stand in formation to solemnly salute the fallen Mohawk warrior one final time. “You’ve been a good friend to me as much as you have been to Connor—I’ll miss you very much.”

9 OCT 13, 2133: USS Bataan (LHD-5)

The Mohawk captain is sitting on his bed, head bowed down as he reflects upon the recent events. His stateroom is feeling a little emptier now that his roommate is gone…he sighs, depressed to know that the loss is permanent. “It sure feels awkward without you here, Kanen'tó:kon…” he mumbles; he wonders how Ezio is dealing with losing Yusuf for a roommate, as his remains were shipped off to his home base not too long ago.

Connor shakes his head in pity as he reminisces the day he last saw Kanen’s and Yusuf’s caskets before they were sent off to their respective places. He wishes he can be home to witness his best friend’s funeral wake—but alas, he must stay here in Syria and carry on with his mission.

“My friend… _semper fi_ …I will fight in your honor,” he utters, visage sullen. “I will continue to do so until this war is over.”

Sighing, he stands up and heads over to his desk. He sits down and pulls out a notebook; as he flips open to the first page, he gets shocked. There is an unfinished entry on the piece of paper, and Connor knows just whose handwriting is on the surface…“Kanen'tó:kon…” he mumbles, visage becoming even more brooding as he reads what Kanen wrote down:

_Istá, Raké:ni,_

_There are no words to describe how much I miss you, but I promise you both one thing: I will be home. I never forget what I fight for, and every day I think about how better our lives will be once_

“He was writing a letter to his mother and father,” Connor blurts, eyes widening. “But…he never finished…”

He silently sits there for a long time, stunned of his discovery. He feels awful to know that Kanen was never able to finish writing his letter, for he is no more. Connor cannot help but frown and basically stare at the notebook; his heart goes out to Kanen’s parents for he can’t imagine what they must be going through at this moment. He lets out another strained breath until an idea clicked in his mind. Picking up his pen, he straightens himself in his seat and begins writing, determined to complete what his best friend started.

A couple of minutes have passed, and Connor concludes Kanen’s letter with a forged signature. He smiles wryly; he’s done his best to imitate his friend’s handwriting—this is the least he can do for him. Sighing, he carefully tears the top part of the paper away from the notebook then takes out an envelope. He folds the letter and then inserts it into the envelope. Sealing the mail, he keeps it someplace safe on the desk then takes out his diary. He huffs, not feeling all too well yet he feels compel to write his thoughts down, thus, he opens his journal and writes:

**[8 Oct 2013 – aboard the LHD-5]**

_When I took my oath of commissioning, I never gave much thought to the words I had to recite, “That I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter…”_

_But now, after all I have been through…the separation I had to face from those I love, to seeing innocents die every day, to witnessing my own brothers-in-arms be slain by criminals…now I understand what it means to be a Marine. I understand now why all commissioned officers have to recite that oath when they are sworn in. And here explain what it all means:_

_No better friend, no worse enemy._

_My enemy is a notion, not a nation. In the name of liberty, I will fight the enemy regardless of their allegiance._

_The bended knee is not a tradition of our Corps._

_To err is human, to forgive is divine. However, neither is Marine Corps policy._

_Fortitude, per mare, per terram, to the shores of Tripoli…I shall be semper fidelis—for once a Marine, always a Marine._

2 JAN 14, 1446: JFK International Airport, New York

Several months have passed since the war in Syria began, and you spent most of the holiday season feeling blue. Sure, it was great to spend it with your friends and relatives, but you wished you spent the more intimate moments with Connor. Christmas without him just didn’t feel the same, and you were downtrodden to know that you also had to miss this New Year’s kiss without him.

Nevertheless, you nearly fainted when you received a phone call a few days ago from your Marine saying, “Norónhkhwa, I have good news for you…tell the world I am coming home.”

So now you here are at John F. Kennedy International Airport, waiting nervously along with Maria, her newborn, the Auditore family, Connor’s mother and even Desmond’s mother. You’ve all been waiting near the terminal gates for about an hour now, and the nerves are getting to you. You can’t hold off the excitement of seeing your Marine come home at last. You see familiar faces appear—mainly Shaun and Rebecca, whom your group congratulates and gives a pat on the back to. As they wait for the others to enter, each person in your circle spends time taking pictures in various poses—yet you all decide to save the one big group picture for last as you all still wait patiently for the rest of your military friends to arrive.

Your excitement increases as you spot Ezio and Desmond, whom all strut towards their loved ones with sass and goofy grins on their faces. Ezio puts his luggage down and spreads his arms out, as if to indicate to his family that they can come over and hug him.

“Ezio!” Claudia hollers, so happy to see how vivacious Ezio is. “Fratello—” she snakes her arms around him and squeezes him tight, beaming.

“See? What did I tell ya? I said I would make it back alive,” he proclaims, smirking. “No enemy can stop an Auditore!”

“Oh, Ezio—still lively as always,” Maria Auditore comments as she goes up to Ezio and hugs him.

“We miss you, caro,” Mario Auditore mentions; he rubs Ezio on the back then says, “Your brother and father whom died serving in Iraq are smiling down upon you now.”

“I’m sure they are,” Ezio susurrates; there is a sweet yet somber smile on his face as he reflects upon his father and brother’s sacrifices.  Realizing that there is one person missing in their group, he queries, “Where is Petruccio?”

“Riiiight here—” the young man is hiding behind Ezio and pops out, surprising him. Grinning, Petruccio remarks, “I got you feathers as a present!” He hands a small yet ornate treasure box to him.

“Feathers?” Ezio questions; he raises a brow and questions, “What for?”

“Huehue, it’s a secret—that’s for me to know and for you to find out,” the boy remarks boldly.

Meanwhile Desmond is talking to his mother and asks, “Where’s dad?”

Sighing, she replies, “He…says that he is too busy with work right now to drive here and see you. He can’t call a day off from work.”

“I thought so,” Desmond mutters, shaking his head. “Typical of him…”

Smiling wryly, Mrs. Miles proclaims, “I am sure he will be able to appreciate what you do and all that you’ve sacrificed for someday.”

“ _Tch_ , he better.”

As these families mind their own business, you, Maria Ibn-La’Ahad, and Ziio still wait anxiously for Altaïr and Connor to make their appearance, although Connor the more so for you and Ziio.

The seconds pass by and eventually turn into several minutes as none of you see any sign of you and your groups’ two remaining friends. The other servicemen pass by, making you weary that you might not see Connor. Then, a new wave enters and in front you see Altaïr. You clap loudly for him so as to signal to your group that he has arrived. The second that you do, Maria whirls around with child in tow and has to cover her mouth the moment she sees her husband stride towards her. There is a smirk in Altaïr’s face from witnessing her reaction, and stepping closer until there is no space between them, he states, “Miss me?”

The only thing that Maria can do is nod her head, and she hugs him with one arm as best as she can since she is carrying her newborn in the other. She quickly lets go of him and coos, “It seems like little Darim here misses you, too.” She hands Altaïr their child, whom he cradles with such joy that the expression on his face changes into one full of genuine warmth. His eyes threaten to shed tears once more as this is the first time he is seeing his son in the flesh, and with a wry smile, he struggles to bring himself to kiss his baby on the forehead while maintain an assertive resolve. Yet one teardrop dares spill itself onto the infant’s forehead, and Altaïr nearly loses it. He hugs his baby closer, gently kissing him on the cheek as emotions overwhelm him. “This—this is what—I fight for,” he struggles to voice, the tears flowing freely down his face now. Glancing at Maria, he utters, “You—” he looks back at his son and states, “And you—are the reasons why…w-why I’m still alive, why I keep on going…”

Maria can’t help but cry in return as she sees how enthralled her husband looks upon seeing their newborn. Retaking Darim back in her hands and giving Altaïr a peck on the cheek, she whispers, “I love you, dear. I am very appreciative of everything you’ve done so far for us and our country.”

There is a sad smile on the Syrian’s face as he mentions, “I can only hope that things will get better for Syria.”

As the couple is lost in the own little world, they didn’t notice that friends around them have been ‘ooing’ and ‘awwing’ the entire time along with taking candid photos of them. You beam, happy that for Altaïr and his family. Yet you’re still anxious of not seeing your Marine anywhere, and a look of uncertainty taints your features as you search for him in the crowd.

Several more minutes pass by and you do not see any sign of him anywhere. The worry that’s placed on your shoulders grows heavier, and you turn to Ziio, looking to be comforted.

“I see less and less Marines coming out from the gates,” you remark, frowning.

Ziio herself tries her best to maintain a positive resolve, but her expression says otherwise. “He’ll be appearing any moment now,” she assures.

2 JAN 14, 1500: JFK International Airport, New York

You don’t know it, but Connor has taken a detour a while back. He is meeting up with Kuruk and his family for a short time in order to give his best wishes to the Pawnee warrior’s recent promotion. Not too long ago, Kuruk was a Gunnery Sergeant who went ‘mustang’ and became a warrant officer. Thus, the significance of him wearing the otter-fur turban means that he has become a war chief.

Connor doesn’t know Kuruk all too well, however; they never mingled with each other on a personal basis due to fraternization policies. While Connor is an officer, Kuruk is an enlisted marine yet is one of most senior-enlisted ones. But now that he has become a warrant officer, the Mohawk man just has the urge to stop by and holler, “Kuruk Bear.”

The Pawnee hears his name being called and spins around. “Sir!” he voices. Eyes widening, he straightens himself up and salutes.

Connor salutes him back then compliments, “Congratulations on becoming a chief, Chief Warrant Officer Bear.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kuruk replies, finishing his salute.

“I wish I was there to see your crowning ceremony, though.”

“That is fine…it means a lot to me to simply have you congratulate me, sir.”

Nodding, Connor responds, “I am sure you will do well in your endeavors. Carry on, Bear.”

2 JAN 14, 1539: JFK International Airport, New York

Just as you are about to lose hope, someone taps your shoulder from behind. You spin around and helplessly cover your face with your palms, sliding them down as you realize who it is that tapped you.

“How have you been, norónhkhwa?” Connor asks; he circles his arms around you and pulls you closer.

You bury your face in his strong chest as you sob, simply overwhelmed with relief and joy. You bring your arms around his waist, holding him as close to you as possible. In turn, he rakes his fingers through your soft hair, a sensation he hasn’t experienced in months. The scent of your perfume reaches his nostrils and he sniffs it, missing everything about you.

Gazing up at him with watery eyes, you mumble, “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” he replies softly.

Of all the five years you’ve been dating him, this is the second deployment of his that you had to endure, and it only got harder as time marched on. But now he is here, back in your arms, safe and secure. You cannot help but smile and stare longingly at him; six long and hard months of not seeing him in the flesh yet he comes home more handsome than ever. You caress his Mohawk hair, and he grins in response.

He lets go of you and says, “Let me go greet my mother.”

“She’s over there with the Auditore family,” you remark, chucking your head towards the direction of where the Italians are at.

Nodding, Connor turns on his heel and strides towards his mother. When he is near her, he announces, “Istá, I am back.”

Blinking several times, Ziio whirls around and almost can’t bear to see her son’s face, “I am very glad to have you back, my son,” she utters; her face becomes wet from the tears that are escaping from the corners of her eyes, but she doesn’t care. She misses him so much that she is overjoyed to see him return. Yet there is pained expression on her face as she mumbles, “Your grandfather and father—I wish they were here to see you.”

“I am sure that they are smiling down upon us from the spirit world right now, istá,” Connor replies, bearing a sweet yet somber smile on his face.

“You make our heritage proud, Ratonhnhaké:ton,” she murmurs, returning his smile before completely letting go of him.

Connor goes back to where you are and announces, “I have a present for you.” He alerts his comrades to come over and stand in formation. Walking over to his peers that informally stood at attention, he mutters into Ezio’s ear, “Do you have that banjolele you bought back when we made port in Norfolk?”

“Si, I do,” Ezio answers. “So…I am assuming that you want me to bust out the tenor and sing now?”

The Mohawk simply answers with a smirk, causing Ezio to grumble as singing isn’t really his forte. However, he is doing this favor as a friend, so he goes over to his luggage and takes out the banjolele from its case. He returns to his group and asks, “Shall I begin now?”

“No, not yet—I need Shaun to start recording,” Connor replies; he walks over to the historian and queries, “Do you have your camera with you?”

“Indeed I do and it’s right here—” he whips out a DSLR that he is hiding from behind, having it ready in his hands.

You raise a brow, wondering what your Marine is up to yet do not say anything as you observe his buddies stand by with stoic faces.

Then, Connor signals Ezio to commence singing and Shaun to initiate recording, and they do so. As the historian steps out of formation and circles around to record the entire scene, the remaining people in the line reluctantly caroling whatever song that Ezio chose to chant—in this case, “That’s Amore” by Dean Martin.

 _My God this is embarrassing_ , Altaïr complains in his thoughts as he tries to sing along with Ezio’s song choice. _Damn minstrel just had to pick the corniest song…_

Rebecca and Desmond, on the other hand, think otherwise, grinning as they sing the familiar tune.

 _Thank goodness I wasn’t chosen to sing along with these knuckleheads of a quartet_ , Shaun muses as he films them.

You laugh, seeing how the Syrian didn’t look quite amused compared to the others. You can’t help but beam and shake your head as you catch Ezio rolling his eyes. You wonder if Connor knows just how irritated his group actually feels right now since his back is facing them…

“Alright, what is this all about?” you question, smirking.

Connor walks up to you and says, “Norónhkhwa, I would like to know—” kneeling on one knee, he proposes, “Will you marry me?”

Your jaw drops, shocked at his proposal. You have to cover your mouth with your hands again as you squeal in glee. In front of you, you can hear Claudia and Petruccio go ‘aww’ at what’s happening.

The only thing you can do is nod as you’re still too awed for words at this moment.

Gleaming, Connor rises from his kneeling position and gently takes your hand. He takes the ring out of its box and puts it on your finger, and you have to gasp as you realize that it is the platinum, heart-shaped diamond ring you’ve been pining for ever since you brought up the subject to Connor about how you dreamed of being gifted an engagement ring from Tiffany & Co.

“Did you really…?” you utter, finally uncovering your mouth.

“Yes—and I bought it from the flagship store in Fifth Avenue, even.”

 “You didn’t—really, the one that’s famously filmed in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’?”

“Indeed,” Connor proclaims, nodding and smirking as he observes your reaction.

You gaze at the ring on your finger, eyes lighting up as the one-carat diamond sparkles under the light. You feel like a million bucks simply wearing it, especially knowing that it must have cost a lot just to buy the ring. “How much did it cost?” you inquire.

“Thirteen thousand dollars,” Connor states matter-of-factly. “That includes tax and everything else.”

“ _Thirteen thousand_ —!?” you blurt, jaw dropping and eyes widening at price of the stone on your finger. He really didn’t need to go far as you are fine with simply having a less expensive ring, yet you cannot help but feel like he is purposely spoiling you so that you can develop a taste for the finer things in life…“That’s almost three months of your salary!”

“Captain’s pay, what can I say?” he retorts, shrugging. “There are a lot of perks to not being married—yet…”

You punch him on the chest in a teasing way, remarking, “We’ve only been engaged for a few minutes and already you’re making marriage jokes.”

The smirk on the Marine’s face widens, and he hugs you one more time as your loved ones congratulate you on your engagement. You notice that the sorrowful look on Ziio’s face is long gone, having been replaced by jubilance. Even some of guests nearby clapped for you as they witnessed the entire event unfold in front of them.

“I think now is the time we bust out the ‘welcome home’ banner, don’t ya think?” Petruccio suggests to Claudia, nudging her in the ribs.

“Sure,” Claudia agrees, nodding her head. She heads over to wear she lay her items down on the benches, taking out a rolled-up banner and hollering, “Hey guys! Let’s gather around and take pictures!”

“Oh—I can be the cameraman—I’ve got high-quality equipment right here,” Shaun points out.

Grinning, you go over to where everyone else has congregated into one large group, joining your now-fiancé in the center foreground. In front of you, Claudia and Petruccio begin to unravel the banner and hold it across until the entire thing covers your group’s lower extremities.

Seeing how everyone is ready, Shaun prepares his camera and says, “Alright, on the count of three, I’d like for you to give me your cheekiest smiles. One—two—three—say ‘apple’!”

“Apple!” you all say in unison, grinning.

24 MAY 14, 1015: Arlington National Cemetery; Arlington, Virginia

It is a grave day in America’s most well-known cemetery for the deceased members of the military. Usually, you’d look forward to having a long vacation as you take Memorial Day weekend off to party and scour all the latest Memorial Day sales in shops. Sure, you give thought every once in a while to those who were killed in action, but never until this moment did such thoughts really sink into your mind as it does now.

You are here, along with Connor and his mother, to remember their loved ones who have fallen in combat. In your hands, you hold a bouquet of red poppies while Ziio holds an American flag properly folded into a neat triangle. This is the first time in a long time that the Mohawk woman has cut her greying hair, and she has to do it to signify that she is mourning once more. Connor, on the other hand, is fully fashioned in his dress blues as a way for him to show his respects to his fallen comrades. This is going to be an all-day occasion for the Kenways, beginning their route here in Arlington and then finishing in Bath, New York, where Kanen'tó:kon is buried.

Mournfully, you all walk towards the tombstone of Connor’s relative with fresh-cut poppies in your hand, and you read what is written on it:

 _HAYTHAM E KENWAY_  
MAJ  
US ARMY  
OPERATION DESERT  
STORM  
DEC 4 1955  
SEP 16 1990  
LOVING HUSBAND  
AND FATHER

“Your father…” you mumble yet not know how to finish it off properly. Connor has told you about his father before, but this is the first time you are seeing his grave in person.

“He served in the Persian Gulf War,” Connor murmurs, visage downcast as he stares at the tombstone.

“I know…” you whisper. “You told me, but…never in detail…”

“I only knew him for a short time…”

“You were four years old when he passed away…that is too young…”

He kneels down, caressing the flag that is planted in front of the grave marker by the cemetery employees and ponders, “Sometimes, I wonder what my life would have been like if my father were alive.”

“I am sure that he would be honored to know how you have followed in his footsteps, just as he had followed his father’s,” Ziio articulates. Her features become forlorn as she reminisces the time she spent with her husband and the little amount of time they all had together as a family. She releases a strained breath as she remembers vividly the day when she discovered the news of Haytham’s death, and how hard it was to tell her son about it…

 “ _Istá, when is raké:ni coming home?” a young Connor asks with doleful eyes._

_“He…he will not be coming back,” Ziio responds hesitantly, her heart heavy._

_“Huh? Why?”_

_“Because, Ratonhnnhaké:ton…”_

A teardrop stains the folded flag in Ziio’s trembling fists as she thinks back to that painful memory. “Ratonhnhaké:ton,” she articulates, turning to face her son whom just stood up. “You know where this flag came from…”

“Yes, that is the flag that was draped over father’s coffin for his funeral,” Connor answers in a dull tone.

With knitted brows and a painful smile, Ziio states, “Indeed. But now I think is the time for me to pass this on to you—” she hands him the flag then says, “When you have children of your own, I would like for you to pass on that flag to them.”

Nodding, Connor gracefully takes the flag. He glances at it then at you, inquiring, “Do you know why the American flag is folded as it is?”

You simply shake your head but are curious to know why.

“The flag is creased into a tri-cornered shape for reasons that are symbolic. When the flag is folded, it is done so thirteen times to represent the thirteen original colonies. Thus, the flag is characteristic of the tri-cornered hat worn by the patriots of the American Revolution. When pleated, no red or white stripe is to be evident—this leaves only the blue field with stars,” Connor answers plainly.

“I see…that is quite interesting,” you mumble, too awed for better words.

“A flag like this should never be unwrapped,” Connor declares, face somber. “The final fold is a sign of the last respect given to the warrior who has served under the flag.” Sighing, he looks back at the grave marker and states, “So many sacrifice their lives for this country…and so many more sacrifice their lives to defend the values they uphold the most…what I have learnt from my time is service is that…while men of courage write history of this day, the future of our land depends on those who are truly free.”

Taking a poppy out of your bouquet, he crouches and plants the flower before the tombstone. “Semper fi, raké:ni,” he rumbles.

25 MAY 14, 1859: Chesapeake Bay, Atlantic Ocean

You are on a small cruise at the bay with Connor and Ziio; the company that owns the yacht has a military discount for the Memorial Day weekend, giving your group the special perk to use the boat as a private charter for less. You are also given a bottle of champagne as a token of gratitude and to celebrate the holiday weekend, although you choose to forgo that for the time being. Instead, you are all at the stern, slightly leaning over the rails as Connor pays his respects to his grandfather.

“My father became a soldier because of your valor, and so it is that I become a Marine for the very same reasons,” Connor voices, gazing at the ripples the yacht created across the bay. “Like a true sailor, you chose to be buried at sea—you became one with the waves, and your spirit lives on in these waters. Your service in the United States Navy shall never be forgotten, and as a token of my respect, I scatter these blood-red poppy flowers in remembrance of your sacrifice.”

You hand him the bouquet of poppies, and he plucks out a flower, holding it close to his heart and reciting, “To sacrifice is to give up something valued for an ideal, belief or goal. We exist today because of the sacrifices of countless Americans—” he chucks the poppy into the ocean, observing it rest on water as he picks out another from your bouquet and articulates, “They have shown valor, and valor means courage, the act of defending what is right even in the face of opposition.”

He takes another poppy from your bouquet and says, “Our fallen ones have shown hardiness, the ability to withstand difficulty while remaining resolute despite adversity,” before throwing the flower into the ocean.

He continues to do this for each poppy he holds onto, reciting a statement for each before hurling them into the waters:

“They have persevered, and perseverance means to endure, to remain steadfast despite severe hardship and obstacles—”

“The Continental Army suffered repeated setbacks before claiming any significant victory. Yet throughout the brutal winter of seventeen-seventy-seven at Valley Forge, they persevered, for they fought for independence —”

“Independence is the state of being free, of being able to make unrestricted choices within the law as free individuals and as a free nation—”

“And a pure nation is free from taint, from what weakens, pollutes or renders it ineffective—”

“Since that fateful Independence Day in seventeen seventy-six, no generation of Americans has been spared the responsibility of defending freedom. For united we stand, divided we fall—”

“We pledge to continue our noble legacy of truth so that in every man, woman and child may forever be free—”

“We give thanks for all who have acted with honor in the growth of our nation—”

“For today’s servicemen remain committed to preserving the freedom that others won for us, for generations to come—”

Sighing, Connor holds the last poppy closer to his heart and murmurs, “And thus we pray that each citizen and all those who represent us in government shall conduct themselves in a manner that will continue to bring honor to our country …” at the mark of his final words, the hurls the flower into the ocean, watching it float away with the rest.

Ziio observes the trail of drenched, scarlet poppies that the Marine has created, reminding her of how Edward Kenway’s blood was spilled in these waters. “The blood of the martyrs who died defending our coasts shall forever be remembered,” she murmurs.

All three of you linger to watch the trail of carmine clusters sail away until they can no longer be seen. Ziio rubs her son on the back with one hand and utters, “You have done your grandfather proud, Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

Connor forces a smile on his glum face. “Niá:wen, istá,” he responds; his eyes then light up as he whispers something into Ziio’s ear. She showcases a stunned look but nevertheless nods her head in approval. “I will be downstairs in my stateroom, then,” she replies. With that said, she spins around and exits the area.

“Even though it is Memorial Day weekend, I do not want this day to become too gloomy,” the Marine states; turning to gaze at you, he suggests, “So how about we drink that bottle of champagne now?”

Smirking, you answer, “Sure thing, dear.”

He beams and takes your hand, guiding you towards a table and pulling out a seat for you. Simpering, you take your seat and wait for Connor to prepare your drinks. He sits down and does so, pouring the liquid into your glass then his.

“So…uhm, h-how about a toast to our engagement?” he suggest with a sheepish grin.

You cannot help but giggle. “Here’s to nearly five months of being engaged,” you proclaim, raising your glass.

Connor doesn’t say anything, instead simply smiling and raising his glass to make a toast to yours.

26 MAY 14, 1600: Bath National Cemetery; Bath, New York

This is the final stop for you and the Kenways. You three stand before the grave of your beloved friend whom has fallen in combat. His death hits Connor the most, for you turn to see the most melancholic expression on his face. Just as there are small flags installed against the tombstones of the deceased servicemen in Arlington National Cemetery, so are they present here in Bath. Earlier in the day, Kanen’s parents have come to visit his grave and leave their own condolences there, so now his tombstone is decorated with some flowers.

“All of Kanien'kehá:ka mourns for you,” Ziio mumbles, clasping her hands together and frowning. “But in turn you have left behind a great legacy, and so we are eternally grateful for what you have done to help our people thrive.”

Connor closes his eyes for a moment then kneels down. He recites, “May you rest in peace, for our fighting will never cease. You fought bravely and with honor died. You leave your family so full of pride. Sleep well, my friend. Your job is done, for your war is over and your battle won…”

 “Would you like for me to lay down these poppies now?” you offer.

The Marine glances back at you and nods his head.

You kneel beside him and place your small bouquet before the grave marker. “You have given your life to save so many, but most of all…your parents,” you rumble, eyes getting watery. “You fought for the freedom of others, but most of all…your parents. You fought to liberate them from the bondage that kept them trapped in their emotional hell. You cared so much that you paid the ultimate price, just to see your family prosper…you were the most selfless of all people I’ve ever met, and it is such a blessing to have known you for this long. There are not many I know who have the valor to do what you’ve done. May you rest in peace now, my dear friend.”

14 FEB 15, 1100: Office of the City Clerk; New York, New York

This is the day that many girls and boys have dreamed of, they day when they would get married. Although for you, it is a sort of bittersweet one as you had to fight off a bunch of snarky brides a few days ago when you announced that you would have a courthouse wedding first. Dating a man in the military isn’t easy, and marrying one is even harder. Unlike civilian brides who get all their legal and ceremonial work done in one day, it is a necessity for you to have your civil ceremony and your bells-and-whistles ‘White Wedding’ be done on separate days. You had to bite back all the brides that gossiped about your choice to get a courthouse wedding done, as they assumed the traditional marriage ceremony to be the ‘real’ one regardless of its lack of legal validity in the eyes of the law.

You glance at Ziio and your own mother for a moment, smiling wryly as they are the only witnesses present; this courthouse wedding isn’t much, but it’s the best you can do with for now. Although you wish you can have your dream ceremony, you know that it just can’t happen with your Marine—at least not yet. Deployments and whatnot keep both of you separate at the most inconvenient times, and soon enough, Connor will be off to another assignment in the Middle East.

You sigh, saddened that you have to wait several months before you can even conduct your White wedding. Nevertheless, it is something you’re definitely looking forward to the moment your Marine returns from his deployment, for the part that excites you the most is having the arch of swords present at your ceremony.

For now, you solely settle on getting the legal stuff out of the way so that you can get it over with and finally receive all the benefits that come with being a military spouse. No longer will it be forbidden for you to visit Maria and her husband’s housing on base; now that you have a dependent ID card just like her, you’re thrilled to know that you will get free housing and even live in the same military base as Maria. The thought of becoming an officer’s wife and meeting other officer’s wives excites you so much that you forget your glumness of getting married in a courthouse for a second.

“—have consented together in wedlock and have witnessed the same before this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth, each to the other, and have declared the same by joining hands,” the Justice of Peace articulates, snapping you out of your dazed state. You blink repeatedly until your focus is on Connor’s face again. He casts you a genuine smile as he holds your hand that’s recently adorned with the wedding ring. It is so rare for him to smile that every time he does so becomes precious moments for you. You are elated to know that he is just as happy as you are to be jointed together in matrimony. His sophisticated Marine dress blues solely exemplify his aura, and you cannot help but beam in return at just how regal he looks on this special occasion.

“By the authority vested in me by the State of New York and the Office of Mayor of the City of New York, I now pronounce you to be husband and wife, and extend to you my best wishes for a successful and happy married life together,” the Justice of Piece proclaims. Nodding his head to Connor, he states, “You may kiss your spouse.”

Connor leans in to steal your lips, and you cannot help but grin into the kiss.

28 FEB 2015, 2001: Ft. Hamilton, Brooklyn, New York

Altair proudly holds his child in his hands, although his visage says otherwise. This is perhaps the last time he may ever see his son, as he has some grave news to tell his family.

Exhaling a strained breath, he stands up from the sofa and hands Darim over to Maria. “Maria, I have something I need to tell you,” he declares, face solemn.

The woman furrows her brows in concern and asks, “What is it?”

“I…received a calling, to go back to our homeland and help end the war,” Altaïr states.

“Really, from who?” Maria questions.

Altaïr stares at his wife for a long time before answering, “Do you remember what happened to Malik? I will tell you the real reason why he went missing, and it is something I must do as well—for our people.”

01 MAR 2015, 1813: Ft. Hamilton, Brooklyn, New York

You anxiously play with the wedding ring on your finger as you mull over on what’s to come for you and Connor. It’s only been less than once month see you got married to him and already he’s leaving you again for orders in Syria. He is staring out the window, forearm pressed to the glass and head resting on it as he ruminates over several things.

“When will you be back?” you ask as you walked up behind him.

“Six or seven months, as usual,” he answers. He’s still staring out the window but speaks, “Although it could go on for longer, depending on my duties and if this war drags on more than intended.”

“I see…” you mumble.

Connor frowns, uncertain if he should tell you more than that. Indeed, he has another deployment to go through, but what he isn’t telling you is how he has taken on another mission outside his duties. He is afraid to tell you that he is on a mission—a mission to become an assassin, a mission to liberate Syria from Templar control and reclaim all of the Levant for the Assassins. He doesn’t want you worrying again since this is another high-risk job he’s taking on, so he sighs, his heart heavy.

“Will we…?” you prompt, hesitant to finish your sentence.

Connor, however, knows what you’re asking. So turning around, he answers with a saddened face, “Meet again?”

You rub the back of your palm now and hope that his answer is a positive one.

Taking note of this, the Marine clutches your hand in his and squeezes it tight in assurance. “No ocean—no matter how big—can ever separate us,” he susurrates, eyes soft. “I will come back.”

You smile wryly at his words, hoping that they are true. Not having much else to say, you lean in to kiss him.

21 APR 2015, 1900: Masyaf Castle, Masyaf, Syria

A cast of ten has congregated around the pyre of the Masyaf castle courtyard ruins. Not much is left of the castle, but what does remain creates a sort of haunting yet beautiful ambient against the starry night.

Altaïr breathes in the warm spring air; he feels as though he has been on these very grounds before…

He glances at his fellow Syrian to his left and smirks; he’s glad to be reunited with Malik again. To his right is Connor, whose face is stoic like the rest yet his eyes say otherwise. They speak of yearning, to be with his beloved once again, and for a minute there, Altaïr frowns. He knows that feeling all too well, what with leaving his own wife and child behind. It is strange for him to see the Native dressed in a white robe; yet it is even stranger to see everyone donned in one.

Familiar faces stare at the fire—Aveline, Dobby, Rebecca, Shaun, Desmond, and Ezio. Only one they do not know, and he is the one that has summoned all of them here in the first place.

“Comrades,” Al Mualim speaks, spreading his arms wide open as if to create a dramatic effect. “We have gathered here today for something very important—” he picks up the tongs from the crowd and heats it over the fire for a moment. “Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember…”

“Nothing is true,” the nine initiates recite.

“Where other men are limited by morality or law, remember…”

 “Everything is permitted.”

"We work in the dark to serve the light. We are Assassins," Al Mualim finishes; he goes around to each initiate now, branding their left finger one by one as a rite of passage into the Brotherhood. When he has completed, he goes back to the fire and puts down the tongs, arms spreading wide again as he declares, “For the liberation of Syria has begun.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1 ‘Military Occupational Speciality’ [⇧ Return to paragraph]  
> 2 military jargon for newly commissioned officers, as the insignia they wear on their shoulder boards resemble a butter bar [⇧ Return to paragraph]  
> 3 ‘Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps’, a high school elective in the United States akin to an experience at a military academy [⇧ Return to paragraph]  
> 4 United States Naval Academy—you can also sign up for the ‘Men’s department’ (aka the Marine Corps) here. [⇧ Return to paragraph]  
> 5 Indian Health Service [⇧ Return to paragraph]  
> 6[US Public Health Service Commissioned Corps](http://www.usphs.gov/)—a uniformed service of the government. Their medical officers wear the Navy uniform since the program began there; however, they mainly serve as non-combatant, support roles. Many have been assigned to work at IHS sites. [⇧ Return to paragraph]  
> 7 The last name of Kanen’s voice actor. Since it was never revealed in-game as to what Kanen’s surname is, I just went with his voice actor’s. [⇧ Return to paragraph]  
> 8 ‘love’ in Mohawk [⇧ Return to paragraph]  
> 9 French for ‘supper’ [⇧ Return to paragraph]  
> 10 Operations Security. Basically, do not tell anyone about your deployment details. Family members should also be careful when telling others about this—don't anyone the exact dates of your serviceman’s return, but instead stick to general statements such as, “Oh, he will return soon—in a few weeks.” This is what OPSEC is—just keeping the activities and identity of your fellow servicemen as confidential as possible from terrorists. [⇧ Return to paragraph]  
> 11 ‘Bye' in Mohawk [⇧ Return to paragraph]  
> 12 ‘Goodbye’ in Mohawk [⇧ Return to paragraph]
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Did you know?**  
>  According to the US [Department of Defense](http://history.navy.mil/faqs/faq61-1.htm), Native Americans have the highest per capita participation in the military. There are nearly 190,000 Native American veterans—1 out of every 4 Native American males is a military veteran, and over 45% of present-day tribal leaders are military veterans. In addition, 24 Native American veterans have earned the highest military distinction of all: the Medal of Honor.
> 
> The reasons behind this disproportionate contribution are complex and deeply rooted in traditional American Indian culture. In many respects, Native Americans are no different from others who volunteer for military service. They do, however, have distinctive cultural values which drive them to serve their country—one such value is their proud warrior tradition.
> 
> When you ask a Native American war hero why they joined military, the answer would usually be, "Many have asked why we fight the White man's war. Our answer is that we are proud to be Americans, and we are proud to be American Indians. The American Indian always stands ready when his country needs him."
> 
> In all of America’s wars and conflicts, Native Americans have served with the strength and quiet valor their tradition has always inspired.
> 
>  **Misc. Author’s Notes**  
>  I don’t know if anyone has noticed, but I mixed in some of Connor’s own quotes into some well-known Marine ones. See if you caught any of them. ;)
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading and being so patient with me! This is perhaps the longest one-shot I’ve ever written, so every feedback is appreciated!


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